


Rites Of Conquest

by Kemmasandi



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Courtship by Combat, Multi, Other, Spark Sex, Sticky Sex, graphic depiction of injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus embarks upon a journey of self-discovery through the lands of the old Primes, but all his best-laid plans come to naught when he stumbles upon an ancient secret deep in the mountains west of the First City, bringing the Cybertronian nations to the brink of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Endeavour

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Rites Of Conquest  
>  **Continuity:** Bayverse (Age of Extinction – pre-canon)  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Characters:** Optimus Prime, Megatron, Ironhide, Sentinel Prime, Ratchet, Prowl, Jazz, Soundwave, the Dinobots, the Knights of Cybertron, more individual tags to come when they appear  
>  **Relationships:** Optimus Prime/Megatron, Optimus Prime/Grimlock, Ironhide/Chromia, Jazz/Prowl  
>  **Content Notes:** Violence, graphic descriptions of severe injury, courtship by combat, sticky/sparks smut, headcanons ahoy, alien societies, dubious alien biology, the concept of mechpreg, but not as we know it, Jim.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Age of Extinction was, for me, mostly an exercise in 'how much headcanon can I get out of this before the movie ends?'
> 
> Hence, this is mostly me guessing and having a go at building on top of very small and detail-starved hints of a history that grabbed my attention and wouldn't let go. I've taken a few liberties with Bayverse canon, having no access to the supplementary materials beyond TFWiki and just plain wanting to mess around with things until they made sense in my head. 
> 
> Use of the term 'brother' between Megatron and Optimus is my attempt at a translation of a Cybertronian pronoun used primarily between those of the same clade (something of an extended family group, but gathered around a profession or societal position rather than familial lines). Megatron, a warrior, and Optimus, a Prime, are not of the same clade, but use the pronoun to convey closeness and affection.

_…_   
_bonds forged through battle—_   
_i won't let anyone be hurt._   
_and when i open this clenched fist_   
_i will find power there_   
_…_

  
RITES OF CONQUEST

Eternal starlight blinked in the sky over the First City, shining down on sleeping civilization.

The guards at the Dawn Basilica's front gates knew Optimus on sight. They waved him through without checking his IDs, a privilege few other mecha had. 

The tall front wings of the Basilica stretched out on either side of the gate, funneling visitors into the heart of the complex. Lights glimmered behind windows at the tops of the vaulted towers at the tip of each wing. Gravel crunched underfoot as he hurried down the great central avenue into the palace which he had called home for as long as he could remember.

He came to a slow stop halfway down the pathway, shuttered his optics, and planted his pedes square on the ground. His electromagnetic field reached out, mapping the ground around him, the avenue, the verdant crystal gardens that lined the Basilica's wings, the opulent rooms beyond.

There, in one of the low halls on the right, a familiar signature.

“Still?” Optimus murmured aloud, and frowned.

He consulted his mental map of the Basilica. There was an open-weather arch leading through the first floor of the right wing a little way ahead. He relit his optics, and made for it.

Wind whistled through the ornate finials and flying buttresses that decorated the ancient temple. The air was cold, and tasted of ice. 

According to the meteorological reports Optimus had been checking every quarter-joor, there was a big storm system making its way up the Rust Sea coast. He hoped to make his departure before it hit. If he couldn't, the future did not bode well for his plans. 

The arched tunnel led him out into a small, crystal-garden lined courtyard. On the other side, a stepped series of flat terraces led up to a grand doorway into the conference hall. He crossed it, took the terrace steps three at a time, and scanned his access chip at the first door inside. 

Cold air swirled in after him.

There was a brazier by the opposite wall. Optimus stood still a moment, holding his servos to the coals to warm them, letting the heat permeate his systems. Lamps cast warm orange light over the engraved reliefs on the walls, and the high corridor ceiling nearly disappeared into shadow. 

Perceptor walked past, his optical array firmly fixed on the stack of slim datapds in his arms. The top pad's screen was lit, and he scrolled as he walked, so completely absorbed in the information it held that he did not seem to notice his superior in the slightest.

 _Scientists,_ thought Optimus. The knowledge that he could count himself thus was not forgotten; the mental voice which which he made the observation not unlike Megatron's aggrieved sighs whenever he found Optimus still at his studies joor after moonset.

Optimus shook his helm, and searched again for the thread of that familiar EM field. He found it in the direction Perceptor had come from.

He followed it to a half-open door near the end of the corridor. Bright light and low voices spilled out through the gap.

Inside were Sentinel Prime, the leader of all the Lowlands tribes, holding court over the larger part of Optimus' subordinates in the Science Division. They stood around a table piled high with datapads and hardcopy charts; empty cubes of energon punctuated the mess, lost styluses peeking out from beneath discarded sheets of hardcopy. Sentinel was speaking. Two scientists – Wheeljack and Harpax, Optimus thought, although it was hard to tell among the crowd – leant over the far end of the table, industriously writing down his calculations.

Optimus didn't bother listening to their discussion before he opened the door; he judged it highly likely that he would not have been able to decipher much of it in any case. Astrophysics had never been his area of expertise.

Sentinel broke off, half-turning to greet him. “Ah – Optimus,” he said, smiling. “I trust you are well?”

“Have you left this room at all since last orbit?” Optimus asked, skipping pleasantries. He leveled a meaningful look at the mech whom had raised him for good measure.

Sentinel's optics shone. “Perhaps not. This will be such a momentuous undertaking in our planet's history.”

“I do not disagree, but surely you will be better able to work toward that goal with a proper span of recharge behind you.” Optimus nodded a greeting at the gathered scientists, returning Wheeljack's friendly smile. “I may not be able to help you with the preparations myself, but this fact I know to be true.”

Sentinel reached across the gap between them and placed his servo upon Optimus' shoulder. “You have our gratitude for your support,” he said firmly. “I had thought you would follow your brother's lead in dismissing the idea.”

Optimus leaned into his mentor's touch. “Megatron does not dismiss the potential that we might gain a sun. He simply wonders whether we do not put ourselves in danger by doing so.”

“Your brother is a skilled and wise warrior, but he does not much comprehend hope,” said Sentinel. “Fortunately, what he lacks, you demonstrate ably.”

He steered Optimus around the table, dismissing the gathered scientists. “You look as though you have something on your mind, young charge of mine. Are you well?”

“I am,” said Optimus. “I would speak with you regarding my future, however.”

Sentinel gave him a measuring look, then released his shoulder. “I believe I have some time to spare you. Come with me.”

He turned away, and led Optimus to a recessed door at the back of the hall. It opened onto a low balcony, roofed with clear quartz sheets and open to the elements at the front.

“Oh, dear Primus,” Sentinel said at the first bite of the wind. “That storm must be nearly here.”

“The cloud shelf is still two hundred leagues down the coast,” said Optimus. He stood shoulder to shoulder with his former caretaker, taking the brunt of the wind on his own frame. He'd never much minded the cold, for reasons he did not quite understand himself. 

Sentinel stepped further into his lee, flickered his field in gratitude. “Then we yet have a few joor of clear skies to enjoy.”

Optimus looked up through the quartz roof. The cut crystal was not quite so clear as glass; the stars appeared blurry, and static. 

He wondered what the sky would look like with a sun blazing over the horizon. The light would surely drown out the stars already there. 

Sentinel gently broke the silence. “What did you wish to discuss with me?”

Optimus vented, gathering his thoughts. There were a lot, and he still didn't quite know what to make of them. “With the majority of my colleagues invested in your project, I find myself with very little to do.”

“Aside from chase stubborn old relics off to berth, I see,” said Sentinel. His engine chuffed in subtle jest.

Optimus smiled despite himself. “Yes, when they need a gentle reminder.”

“And you have given some thought as to how you wish to occupy yourself?” Sentinel guessed.

“Yes.” Optimus looked down at his hands for a moment. “You know already that I have wanted to travel more broadly than my life has thus far allowed.”

Sentinel watched him evenly. “I observe often that you seem... envious, perhaps, of Megatron's travels. As well, your fascination with the maps in my library is well-documented.”

It was so very like him to give evidence in support of a statement that Optimus nearly laughed aloud.

“You told me that you believe me to be a descendant of the Primes,” he began, hesitantly, conscious of his mentor's attention. “I don't know how I can possibly be such, but you have never led me wrong and I cannot disbelieve you now. You told me that you wish for me to succeed you as our leader. I do not believe myself capable of that.”

Sentinel's field washed over his, calm and reassuring. “We seldom truly know what we are capable of before our hands are forced,” he observed. “You have performed admirably in your tasks thus far, but, to borrow Megatron's jargon, you have not yet been tested in the field. Therefore, while I trust your judgement in yourself and I will not force you to abide by mine, I do not think that you have yet become aware of your full potential.”

Optimus forced his gaze upwards, over the terraced garden that spread out below the balcony. 

How could one tell one's mentor, “I think you are overestimating me”? He'd try his best, of course, but Megatron had always been the natural leader. Megatron knew instinctively how to make decisions and give orders. He knew what he was doing, and how he intended to go about it. Mecha were glad to follow someone like that.

Optimus? He was a historian, an archaeologist. He was most at home in the archives, among the back shelves where dust floated through the aisles from every disturbed file and even the air tasted of time immeasurable. Orders were alien to him, his own inclination towards collaboration rather than command.

But Sentinel seldom made observations without proof positive of his conclusions. Perhaps he in all his age and wisdom could see what Optimus could not, his vision clearer without obfuscating self-analysis and doubt.

“I need time,” Optimus said with a sigh. “Perhaps you are right; I may grow into it – but two orbits is hardly long enough to adjust.”

Sentinel nodded. “Then that is the least I can give you.”

Optimus gratefully flared his field. But he had something more to ask of his old caretaker, and this he foresaw would be the true point of contention.

“In that case, I wish to travel to Occidentalia.”

Sentinel frowned. His optics sharpened, and he half-turned to Optimus with a question in his field.

“Why there? More to the point, why so far?”

Because Occidentalia was the farthest-flung domain under Sentinel's control. Because Tyger Pax, the oldest and largest population center on the planet, was located along the way. Because he needed to get out and into the world, to experience its cultures and places before Sentinel's plans locked him into one place for the rest of his life.

Also because Occidentalia was famous for its ancient ruins, and Optimus had already exhausted every monograph on the subject available in the First City and beyond. But he doubted that Sentinel would appreciate that reason much.

“I feel that, if you want me to lead these people in the future, I should get to know them,” he said, quietly, hoping that his mentor would understand. “Megatron is on campaign near Occidentalia. I could meet up with him there, and we could come back together.”

Sentinel rumbled deep in his chest. “You would be all but alone. I do not want for you to be hurt. I do not want to lose you.”

“I know,” said Optimus. “I won't take risks. I know several people in cities along the route I plan to take who are willing to help me.”

“I can't stop you, can I?” Sentinel sighed. “You wouldn't stay another few lunar orbits?”

“If I do, I'll be stuck for at least ten,” said Optimus. “There is a mechanometer of snow on the ground at Meridia already. I'd have to wait for it to melt and for the acid to neutralise before I could safely travel.”

“Hmph.” Sentinel folded his arms and looked down. “At the very least, take Ironhide with you. If only for my peace of mind.”

Relief blossomed in Optimus' spark. He'd made plans to go regardless, but it felt much better to have Sentinel's blessing.

“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate it more than you know.”

* * *

He'd been back in his suite for barely a minute before Ironhide arrived.

“Oh dear,” said Optimus, looking up from his last-minute preparations. “I hope Sentinel didn't get you out of berth on my account.”

“Nah, don' worry,” Ironhide replied with a dismissive flap of his hand. “Wasn't my berth, anyway.”

“You're surprisingly high-spirited, that being the case.” Optimus observed. Ironhide was an old soldier and seldom minded being woken, but it couldn't be easy on the mecha he took to berth.

Ironhide lifted his shoulders in an expansive shrug. “Ah figure, this way Ah get ta know what you've been up to, lately, don't try to tell me yeh haven't. And Ah get to make sure yeh don't getcherself into trouble.” 

“I'm hardly a nymph anymore.” Optimus grabbed the closest chair and sat, chuckling. “How much trouble could I be?”

“Yeh really want me ta answer that?” Ironhide dimmed one optic in an exaggerated squint. “The two of yeh added vorns to my spark, Ah swear.”

He reached the middle of Optimus' living room and planted his servos on his hips. “So. What're yeh plannin'?”

Optimus picked his personal datapad up off the low table. “I'm going to Occidentalia,” he said.

“Ah,” said Ironhide. “Sentinel wants me along to make sure yeh don't get slagged, then?”

Optimus gestured to the ancient low-backed chair by the balcony doors, Ironhide's perennial favourite. “That would be my thinking, yes.”

“Huh.” Ironhide dropped into the chair with a thoughtful rev. “Haven't been up there in eons. It's a nice place.”

“If we get to Metrotitan within a few joor, we might be able to avoid this storm.” Optimus opened his personal account and checked his messages. The meteorological department had issued a pre-warning, informing all mecha within the First City and its hinterlands of the approaching storm system. “Though Elita tells me she's happy to host us if we choose to wait for better weather.”

Ironhide's field flared with pleasure. “Been a while since Ah saw Chromia, too.”

“In that case, perhaps we should impose on their hospitality,” said Optimus, deliberately not implying anything. 

Ironhide gave him a look from narrowed optics, but did not comment.

Optimus opened the shuttle network page on the datapad's browser. The First City shuttle links to Meridia and Central City had already been grounded, but the inland route to Metrotitan was still running. Optimus booked two spaces on board the next flight, then withdrew a generous amount of credits to be uploaded onto physical card chips and picked up at the shuttleport.

Metrotitan was a little further south than he would have preferred to go, but the mountains of the Main Divide had been held by tribes allied against the Lowlands consortium for a long time. The dangers Sentinel feared were not at all uncommon; it had been a mere half-vorn since the last spy had been caught within the Basilica itself, prompting Sentinel to forbid the general public from entering. Thus Metrotitan was the less risky option by far.

From there, he could head north along the western edge of the mountains into Occidentalia. That road would have to be attempted on foot; there were no aerial links into Tyger Pax. 

Optimus stood, sending a final message to Elita before shutting the device off. It went into his subspace, alongside the half-dozen datapads and the entrance to the _second_ subspace, in which his falx and shield were stored. He planned to travel light – with any luck he would not need the weapons.

“The last shuttle leaves in a quarter-joor,” he told Ironhide. “We should go now.”

The old warrior levered himself to his feet. The cannons on his forearms spun idly. “Lemme stop off at th' armoury along the way, Optimus. I got something I want picked up.”

Curiosity scratched at Optimus' spark, but he pushed it down. “Don't take too long,” he said dryly, knowing Ironhide's reputation. “I'd rather not have to extract you.”

“That happened once!” Ironhide protested with a laugh. “Besides, yeh might thank me for it later.”

* * *

The messenger bowed twice before entering Megatron's tent, a gesture of respect that marked her as hailing from the far southern _rus_ beyond the borders of the Lowlands Consortium's influence.

Megatron took her messages with a brusque thankyou, dismissing his officers in the same moment. Rain drummed down on the water- and acid-proof roof of the campaign tent. He waited until the last warrior had gone, before retreating into the secluded rear of the tent.

The messages were hardcopy, sealed inside a travel case that looked the worse for its long journey. He keyed in the locking code, delicately plucking out the sheets.

The first was a message from the general he'd left in charge of the southern garrisons. Megatron skimmed the report, everything seeming to be in order, and discarded it in favour of the second, which bore his brother's seal.

 _My beloved brother,_ it read, 

_I am not surprised in the least to hear of your victories, which you will be glad to know seem to have only grown in the telling as the news has spread eastward. I do hope such success continues; it would be wonderful to receive you home in one piece for once._

Megatron's hands went to the new weld across his ventral armour, resting gently against the aching wound. “A sight late for that, little brother,” he murmured.

Optimus continued, describing the ordinary hustle and bustle of First City high society. He did have a talent for making it seem interesting – Megatron, who had little patience for the political maneuvering and social dictates of the Consortium's highest echelons, pillowed his chin on the heel of his palm and read onward.

Sentinel's ridiculous plan was apparently entering its final stages. Megatron still didn't know who to blame for that one; Optimus' Science Division bright sparks, or Sentinel himself. The old mech was going senile, clearly.

_He is so excited about the project that he has not been getting enough recharge at all. I try to remind him that he will be far more useful when properly charged, but alas he does not seem to comprehend the necessity. Either that, or he is far more terribly stubborn than I had given him credit for. Either way, I hope that he will behave himself in my absence._

Megatron blinked. “What absence?” he asked aloud, and scanned the first few paragraphs again to make sure he hadn't missed something important.

He hadn't – Optimus explained himself in the next paragraph.

_I write to you from the sitting room of the Opal Towers in Metrotitan. I apologise for this – I should have told you sooner, but my hand was forced by the arrival of a fierce storm from the north, which forced me out of the First City before I could send this letter. I have decided that I tire of pining for your return from the confines of home. You know of my wish to travel, and I have been very grateful for your support, of course, but I have recently come to the conclusion that I must make my move now, before Sentinel's plans for us trap me within the confines of the Basilica for the rest of my life to rely only upon your stories of places and people afar._

Which was a very long-winded (so like Optimus that it made Megatron's spark constrict in sudden uncharacteristic longing) and roundabout way of saying that he'd finally taken Megatron's advice and just done it.

 _I intend to base myself in Tyger Pax for the coming few lunar cycles – however long it takes to explore Occidentalia and the western foothills of the Main Divide._

Megatron's grin disappeared. Of course Optimus would choose the most dangerous of the Consortium's tribal heartlands to explore. Of course.

Scientists. He couldn't trust either of them to use their heads.

 _I am aware of the dangers,_ Optimus continued, like Megatron would take his word for it, _and I have brought Ironhide with me for a little additional security. I do not know that you will approve of my choices, regardless, but please know that I am determined to do this, for my own betterment. I hope to rendezvous with you at the end of the campaign season, which if you should find yourself amenable to my company would mean that we could return to the First City together._

_I look forward to our reacquaintance,_

_Optimus._

Megatron threw the hardcopy down onto his travel desk. “The next time I go off on campaign I will tie you to your berth and frag you until you can't so much as hobble,” he declared. “Then I'll put a charge damper in your valve and a drip in your lines and leave you tied up until I come back, because apparently I can't trust you to keep yourself out of trouble on your own terms!” 

The rain drummed down outside, and the brazier that gave the tent light and warmth flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. 

Perhaps he should take a page out of the high-society mechas' books and kindle Optimus instead. That would keep him inside for a few lunar cycles, in a method slightly more socially acceptable than the first.

The ground under his pedes was beginning to get a little damp. Their remote corner of Occidentalia had been besieged by the elements for several lunar orbits now; rainclouds spawned over the tropical Mare Occidentalis piled into the looming mountaintops of the Main Divide, rising and cooling until they let go of their moisture. Right on top of his army, as it happened.

He intended to drive them northwest as soon as the rain let up. The highlander tribes had disappeared as soon as the clouds appeared, no doubt familiar with the weather patterns. They had a city closer to the shores of the Mare, if his scouts' reports were correct. Sieges weren't Megatron's favourite, but if he could break down the city walls, it would be a major victory for his damp and tired Lowlanders.

If nothing untoward happened in the meantime. Like, say, his slow-clocked moron of a little brother getting himself kidnapped and held to ransom by the aggrieved highlanders.

Megatron lowered himself onto his berthroll and pulled his travel desk onto his lap. He'd try not to write a reply entirely composed of threats, though Primus knew Optimus richly deserved it. 

_My dear little brother,_

_When I find you I will kick your skidplate twice around the nearest Primal Temple and tan your aft until the paint wears off my hand._

'Try' being the operative word in that sentence.

* * *

They arrived in Occidentalia two days ahead of the festival of Cataclysm. Past the big iron siege gates, the streets of Tyger Pax heaved with activity. 

Had Ironhide not been present, Optimus thought he could easily have gotten lost in the crowd. Where the central cities celebrated the festival of the cataclysmic end of the Dynasty of Primes with somber colours and chanted ceremony, the west met it with bright flags and lantern-lit dances, parades through the streets. Optimus found himself stopping to watch performances, inspect the wares peddles by opportunistic street sellers, and simply be amazed by the things he'd never seen before.

They made it to the cliffside residence whose keys Optimus had begged from an old Academy classmate in just over two joor.

Ironhide closed the door and leant back against it like a mech trying to hold off an invading army, cycling a resigned sigh through his vents.

“So much for you not bein' a nymph anymore,” he groaned. “I can't take my optics off of yeh for a second.”

Optimus stood by the massive bay window and stared out into the street. Even here, in a well-off and thus somewhat sparsely populated neighborhood, there were performers on the paths and half-grown nymphs running between them, strings of flags strung between the upper levels of the houses flying proudly in the wind. Bright blue and gold lanterns bobbed along at head height, tethered to the ground with ornamental braided wirethread. Musicians played at every corner. He could only just hear them if he pressed his audial to the glass.

“This is history at work,” he said, pressing his hands to the windowsill and leaning out into the bay. “It's incredible.”

“Would be nice if yeh'd let us get to where we're supposed to be _before_ yeh go gawkin',” grumbled Ironhide, but not without a note of indulgence in his voice. 

He dug in his subspace and produced a pair of small energon cubes. The liquid inside glowed a potent deep purple. 

“Have a toast, kid? To a safe journey here, and a safe journey home.”

Optimus took the offered cube. “Primus willing,” he said, and drained it. 

The energon burned like fire on the way down. Ironhide cackled out loud at his stricken expression.

“That's Paxi brew! Gotta take it slowly, savour th' taste.”

Optimus eyed his empty cube. He'd always liked the harsher tastes – as a high-charge frametype they tended to go along with the better buzzes – but that had been unexpected.

“I don't know about that. It could be good, given the chance to get used to it.”

“Yeah, but then yeh'd be wasting a good high-grade.” Ironhide slowly finished off his own cube. “So. Ah'm gonna settle in an' recharge for a while. Got plans of yer own?”

“Recharge sounds wonderful,” said Optimus. They'd been driving all orbit, and his suspension was collecting its debt. “I may explore the neighborhood afterwards.”

“Don't leave th' city until Ah can come with yeh,” Ironhide warned. “Border regions like this're tough, and I've been here before.”

Optimus nodded in acknowledgement. “I hope to visit the Psittacine ruins tomorrow after moonrise sometime. The site manager has invited me to look over her research.”

“Should be doable,” Ironhide grunted. “Yeh can poke around for info on the higher ruins while yer at it.”

Optimus nodded, already bending his mind to the task. He'd tried and failed to do so through official channels, so perhaps it was time for a little imagination.

Ironhide stumped up the stairway, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

The higher ruins were a group of ancient citadels built on mountainsides in the Main Divide, a couple of hundred leagues west of Tyger Pax. As a group, the name was misleading – they were barely related, separated by distance, culture and time of influence. The oldest had been dated to nearly eighty thousand vorn; the two youngest, at sixteen thousand, would have been at their peak just before the Cataclysm. 

He'd been fascinated by them for centuries, ever since he'd come across the initial research as a student putting together his graduate thesis at the Academy of History in Meridia. Sentinel's theory regarding his origins had only added a more personal investment to his interest. These might have been his original people, had events turned out differently.

Accessing the ruins was the primary question. They were scattered along the border of Occidentalia, well within the range of the occasional raiding parties that spilled out of the foothills of the Main Divide. Several archaeologists had been taken by the highlanders already. 

Optimus glanced past the stairway into the big dark kitchen at the back of the house. He reached into his subspace, found the entry of the second pocket, and drew out the falx and shield.

The blade glimmered under the warm entryway light. It was sharp, and showed no ill effect from the long ride in a very experimental mechanism. The shield likewise was fine, if a little warm.

He sighed through his vents, and went into the kitchen to find some proper energon. Recharge was beginning to sound like a very good idea.

* * *

The head researcher at the Psittacine site was a little mech called Glyph. She greeted Optimus the next orbit with a cheerful smile, barely batting an optic at the big black cannon transportation system grumbling at his heels. Ironhide hadn't quite gotten all the recharge he'd wanted.

Glyph was happy to oblige Optimus' professional curiosity. He had the sense that she would have done so even if he hadn't been the one holding her pay packet; her personality seemed skewed permanently toward the happy end of the scale. 

She took four steps for every one of his, bumbling around his feet like a young nymph. Her team was doing good work, and she was rightly proud of it.

“We have a classic Paxi Culture layout here,” she explained, raising her work lantern and leading him over to a well-excavated stretch of the site. “The pilings beneath the site indicate a four-level structure at least, gathered around a central tower with left and right wings encircling a raised and terraced courtyard. Across the path, however, the next house shows Centralian influences in the portico and the underground storage area. We've dated remains found in the underhouse to twenty-two thousand vorn.”

She jinked around a pegged extension into the primitive roadway and gestured further down the hill. “Two blocks that way, we have a building, razed to ground level about twelve thousand vorn ago during the rise of the Tyger Pax proto-city. The site was overbuilt with an ornamental plaza not long afterwards, but thanks to the local erosion we were able to uncover the original floor plan – which looks very like a Classical Centralian Primal shrine.”

“Interesting,” said Optimus, and very much meant it. “Refugees, do you think?”

Glyph shrugged. “Perhaps. Whoever they were, they were readily accepted. We've found a similar blending of architectural styles in several places elsewhere, in a variety of social strata. Until the event which caused the city to be abandoned, there's no indication of segregation, or limitation to a particular level of economic status.” 

Optimus looked into the gaping cellar of the second ruin Glyph had indicated. Holes in the concreted cellar wall indicated where crossbeams had once sat, holding up the floor above. The cellar itself was deeper than he was tall, and shadows clung to the corners.

“Crushed beryl in strata within the crete mix.” Glyph lowered her lantern into the hole. Glimmers of red sparkled on the pitted, ageworn surfaces of the wall. “That's not a local mineral. Whoever had this particular house built had a lot of money.”

“This is the mercantile quarter, is it not?”

“We're right on the edge of it. What do you think so far, sir?”

Optimus stared at the sparkling gemstone embedded in the crete. “This would indicate a longer relationship between the Centralian and Paxi basal cultures than we had previously recognised.”

“It's subtle, but the architecture has it,” Glyph said, looking pleased. “Of course, we've got to get down to the basement level elsewhere, but now that we know where to look, that should be quicker work.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Optimus moved away from the gaping basement, looking out and down the gently sloping hill. The ruins stretched onward for almost a full league. 

Tyger Pax glimmered under the starlight in the distance. He sharpened his optical focus, and picked out the bloom of fireworks above the outer districts.

“Have you seen a Tyger Paxi festival before?” asked Glyph. 

She too had come from the Central Lowlands originally, if Optimus heard that faint accent in her speech correctly. Metrotitan, perhaps down toward rural Simfur. Like Optimus she had a Meridian postgraduate degree, and the soft Meridian influence in her pronunciaton obscured her original accent.

“No, I have not,” he replied. “Ironhide tells me I have an education in store.”

The minibot laughed. “That sounds about right. When I first came here I went to the Landing Festival with a friend from Meridia. Somehow we ended up on the other side of the city to where we started. It took us almost two orbits to get back to our boarding houses.” 

“Oh dear,” said Optimus. “How did you manage?”

“Lots and lots of semi-legal stimulants. Likely the Lords would have frowned on us, but we got home safe, and I believe that's what mattered most.”

Optimus chuckled. “Yes, I see your point.”

Glyph looked up at him, a glint in her pale blue optics. “Now, I hear you're interested in the higher ruins.”

“I am,” said Optimus diplomatically. “I wonder how possible it would be for me to visit perhaps the closer ones.”

Glyph thinned her lips and hummed. “Possible,” she hedged. “It's dangerous up there. Probably more than my job is worth to take you myself.”

Optimus waited for her to continue. That had sounded like a sentence with a 'but' tacked on.

The little archaeologist fished a datapad out of her subspace and turned it on, frowning down at the glowing screen. “There's a supply team going up soon. I'm sure they'd be happy to have a little extra firepower at their backs,” she hazarded, and glanced over her shoulder at Ironhide. 

The old gunner had climbed a small rock outcrop, and sat like a shadowy sentinel at the top, looking out over the ruins.

Optimus smiled. “Perhaps I shall have to speak to Ironhide about expanding his horizons.”

Glyph laughed. “He looks as though they've already been thoroughly expanded!”

She continued at Optimus' soft chuckle. “Well then, which sites were you wanting to see? We've got studies going on Bonedry Ridge, Low Falls and Lotus Creek Valley. Sunda wants to have a go at the Horn Peak site as well, but it's been difficult to get funding.”

“Everything we have is going into the Daylight Project,” Optimus sighed, shifting his weight onto the other foot. “I have seen some of the reports coming out of Lotus Creek Valley. It seems an interesting prospect.”

“That one's quite far north, almost into the Western Arm of the Divide.” Glyph hesitated. “We... have been seeing some strange phenomena in that region.”

“Oh?” Optimus said, intrigued. “What sort?”

“Inexplicable bursts of light, distant booming noises. We'd say the latter were due to avalanches out of sight, but they are much shorter and of a slightly higher frequency than is normal with such geological events. Also, one of my junior assistants swears blind that he saw a group of large creatures crossing the bare flank of a mountain on the other side of the Needle Valley Pass several orbits ago. I'm not certain I believe him completely, but I am also not about to discount the possibility that he saw exactly what he thinks he did.”

“How large?”

Glyph gave Optimus a considering look. “Larger than you. Quadrupedal, or similar. He guesses that the largest was around thirteen mechanometers long from head to haunch. Its construction apparently included a tail, but he wasn't as clear on that.”

Optimus looked down his six-mechanometer-tall frame. “That is very large. Has anyone else seen them?”

Glyph paused again. “No,” she said eventually, drawing out the syllable, “but we do have images of what might be tracks.”

She pinged him a copy. He opened the file: a bare sloping layer of clay on the side of a mountain somewhere, someone's headlights shining on the faint indentation of a large plantigrade footprint.

“They couldn't be mechanimals, could they?”

She shook her helm decisively. “The largest mechanimals in the area are voltaic elk, down in the valleys, and spring chamois. There's a large species of predatory feletta in the area, wingspans around four mechanometers – and watch out for them, they're eminently capable of bringing down the biggest warframes – but they're the wrong shape.” 

“I see.” 

Optimus looked up at the outcrop on which Ironhide perched. The old warrior's optics gleamed in the dark. 

A databurst landed in his inbox.

:: _Sounds like an interestin' mystery. If yeh still want ta go, Ah'm happy ta lend my cannons._ ::

“Would you send me the files?” Optimus said, lowering his voice. A party of excavators had appeared on the path several blocks ahead. Glyph's demeanour had changed as soon as she had noticed them, her enthusiasm curbed.

She nodded, somewhat stiffly. “The supply party leaves from the east gate at moonset two orbits from today. The guide's name is Risingwind. I'll talk to him about an extra guard.”

“Two,” said Optimus.

Glyph looked up at him. “I thought Megatron was the warrior?” 

“He is. But we both received martial training once we had the armour for it. I too have the upgrades.”

“Oh.” Glyph blinked. “Well. That explains why you only have the one bodyguard.”

“Ah'm good, but not that good,” said Ironhide, approaching from behind. “We're good ta go, Optimus? Only there's that energon bar yeh asked me ta make a reservation at.”

The guilt of a forgotten appointment crept up onto Optimus' shoulders. “My apologies,” he told Glyph. “I hadn't remembered.”

“It's fine,” she said cheerfully, turning to walk back up the hill to the site headquarters. “If you're not busy with the festival later on, feel free to come back. We've found a lot of interesting artifacts in these later digs, but the field work keeps calling me, and I need an excuse to catalogue them all.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus' adventures in bad decisions continue...

RITES OF CONQUEST

The Cataclysm festival was loud and exhausting. Optimus took to the streets along with what must have been every other mech in the city, pressing into a narrow space along the sides of the main roads to watch the festival procession go past. 

It occurred to him that he could have contacted the city Lords for a space above the crowds to observe from, but somehow the experience was only magnified by the shouting and cheering all around, the occasional elbow in the belly and the complete and total lack of personal space. 

Afterwards, he and Ironhide spent the orbit drifting around the streets, buying souvenirs and delicacies for themselves and for friends back home. Optimus made the mistake of purchasing a box of crystallised salts for a small nymph whose parents had been misplaced, and spent the next joor with a cloud of tiny con artists following at his heels.

Ironhide laughed himself sick. That was the second-worst thing, after the substantial hit to his credit supply.

The following orbit, they locked up the house, and met the supply merchants at the east city gate's staging post.

The convoy's guide, a slim leggy minibot, introduced himself as Risingwind. “Thank Primus you're here,” he added, with a nervous look at the archaeologists over his shoulder.

“The other one's backed out; you're all we've got.”

Ironhide gave Optimus a measuring look. “Why d'yeh think he dropped out?” he asked the guide. “Something we should know?”

Another flustered look over the shoulder. The guide was nervous, and not because of the cannons spinning lazily on Ironhide's forearms.

“There's something up there,” he murmured. “I don't have any proof, but we could all feel it, last time we went up. The guides and guards, I mean; the scopes and prods don't have the presence to sense it, and they won't believe anything they can't examine.” He gave a helpless shrug. “And you know how rumours spread.” 

Optimus, who hadn't heard 'prods' used as a slang term for scientists before, knelt to put himself on Risingwind's level. “Do you fear reprise for speaking of this?”

It was a shot in the dark, but judging by the response, he'd hit the nail on the head. Both the guide and Ironhide looked sharply at him, but Risingwind's hackles were raised and his EM field sharp with worry.

Quietly Optimus determined to find out whether that worry was normal fear of a job loss, or something more.

“Who is the project administrator?” he asked, giving the minibot an easier question to answer.

“Lancehaft. Ex-military, but he forgets the 'ex' part sometimes.” Risingwind's optics narrowed. “Look, who are you? All I've got to go by is Glyph's good word and let me tell you, I'm wondering why she gave it.”

Optimus gave Ironhide a pensive look. :: _I didn't tell her not to pass on my name, but it could be a boon._ ::

:: _D'yeh know this Lancehaft?_ ::

:: _Only in the context of names attached to site reports and published results. Those suggest a meticulous personality dedicated to proving himself right._ :: He paused, then added, :: _Too dedicated, it has been suggested._ ::

Ironhide shrugged, and turned his back. :: _Knock yerself out, then._ ::

Optimus chuffed a shallow laugh. “I am only an extra guard for the convoy,” he told the dubious Risingwind. “Call me Orion. My companion is Ironhide.”

“Th' questions are us wonderin' if it might be worth negotiating a pay bonus at th' end,” the old gunner put in. 

Risingwind picked up on the wry twist of his field and laughed. “Good luck with that. Lancehaft's tighter than a minibot's exhaust pipe.”

“An' he's coming this way, too.” Ironhide dropped into a cell-guard's slouch. “Guess he wants to be off.”

Risingwind rose with a regretful twist of his narrow features. “I suppose I'd better tell him the other one won't be turning up. It was nice knowing you, and if I get my head bitten the whole way off, please take my frame back to Centralia with you.” 

“Surely it couldn't be that bad,” murmured Optimus – but judging by the shouting that filled the staging post a moment later, it was.

The convoy's departure was not delayed much by Lancehaft's temper tantrum. Shortly after moonrise, they drove through the ancient arch of the east city gate, and out over the flat intermontane plains.

Risingwind took point, his two-wheeler altmode spitefully outpacing the not quite so well-suited to cross-country driving altmodes of the scientists. The porters stayed in one close-knit group near the centre of the convoy, while the archaelogists, sans the ill-tempered Lancehaft, slowly fell further behind. Ironhide roamed wide for as long as the terrain permitted it, while Optimus brought up the rear.

It was nothing like the few military excursions Optimus had accompanied, back when he and Megatron had both been cadets. The pace was slow, and the disorganization almost laughably so. 

He idled along at the back, keeping half an optic fixed on the bumbling afts of the rearmost archaeologists, and indulged the rest of his processor in appreciating the geography of the province.

Tyger Pax's ancient plains slowly gave way to flat-topped plateaux and terraced drainage channels cut deep into the surface of the planet. The western side of the Main Divide was one of the rainiest places on the planet; millennia of acidic precipitation making its way down out of the mountains had cut the highlands to pieces over time, like gigantic warframe claws through the planetary surface. Many such scars were far too wide and deep to be bridged, and the route northward snaked leagues down into the strata before rising up into the silvery moonlight onto the opposite banks.

Optimus could see why the rumours had gained traction. Even before the peaks of the Western Arm loomed up over the horizon on the fourth lunar orbit, it was a spooky place.

Then the mountains arrived, and he began to feel the prickle of belief itching at his neck.

Risingwind called the convoy together for a pit stop and rations at the foot of the ascending pass. Optimus unfolded from his altmode and craned his helm up, and up, in a futile effort to see the cloud-wreathed peaks.

Ironhide jabbed an elbow into his ventral plating. “Drink now, gawk later,” he said, pressing a standard-grade cube into Optimus' hands.

“They're incredible,” Optimus murmured. He felt for the cube's opening with his fingertips, unwilling to look away. “An entire city could get lost in there.”

“It has, if yeh listen ta old mechs' camp tales,” Ironhide said helpfully.

Optimus gave him a Look. “I don't believe you've told me that story.”

The old warrior shrugged loosely. “That'd be 'cause there's not much to it. All right, accordin' ta my old sergeant there was a sect a' warrior monks. Knights, they called themselves. Supposedly they had somethin' to do with the time before the Cataclysm. Their headquarters, a place called Crystal City, was in there somewhere.” He gestured to the mountains, taking in the sheer vastness of the landscape. “Before my time there was this regional lord who thought it'd be a jewel in his crown ta add those monks ta his armies, if you get my drift. So he set off with a huge army, into the mountains on goat trails and the words of scouts more used to tracking mechanimals across the plains. And when they got there, they found the city deserted an' its inhabitants long gone, with all trace a' which way they'd gone washed away by th' rain.”

“Where was the city supposed to be located?” asked Optimus, intrigued. 

Again, Ironhide shrugged. “That was about when th' squad commander told us ta shut up an' get some recharge or we'd all be up on charges of Causin' A Superior Officer Ta Miss His Beauty Sleep. Direct quote.”

He glared at Optimus as if daring him to challenge the truthfulness of the final statement, but Optimus' attention had returned to the mountains.

They were sharp and jagged, as if some monstrous being had taken the broken layers of the planetary crust and wrenched them up until the edges pointed toward the stars. The sheer awe-inspiring size of them made Optimus' proximity scanners glitch. The low shoulders of the closer ranges seemed to lean in over his helm, their weight on the landscape pressing down on him. The more distant peaks punched up into the sky, disappearing into a dark mass of cloud that dropped off abruptly just beyond the edges of the range. 

Risingwind called the pit stop to a close, and they pressed on into the first pass. 

The road climbed sharply, and grew rapidly narrower. Optimus, whose altmode had the widest beam, found himself having to transform several times in order to edge past the narrowest ledges. 

They reached the highest point on the saddle near mid-orbit, and began the long descent down into the next valley. The wind dropped, and the clouds melted away, moonrise bathing the landscape in quicksilver.

Something about the surroundings made it easy to remain alert. Optimus' neural net prickled with the awareness of the huge slope of the mountain on one side and the sharp drop on the other. The open vault of the sky yawned above them, inky blue-black woven through with skeins of bright stars.

He spotted movement on the ridge they'd just come down. Autonomics threw him into root mode, but some extra sense stayed his hand, and the falx and shield remained in his subspace.

A group of spring chamois went diving down a near-perpendicular cliff. There were no ledges that he could see, no footholds beneath them, but the mechanimals leapt confidently from ledge to tiny ledge with unbelievable precision. Starlight glimmered faintly off weatherworn plating, from near-silent rockfalls that cascaded down after the group.

Optimus watched until they lit upon a horizontal shoulder in the mountainside. The chamois gathered into a tight-knit group, heads turned his way, and he felt sure that they observed him in return.

The attention was eerie, in a way. He decided not to bother transforming back; the convoy was moving slowly enough that he could keep up on foot.

They made it through the Needle Valley Pass early the next orbit. The route widened, its gradient shallowing out. The valley was narrow, the lower slopes blanketed with thick mineral formations. A fast-flowing river carved a gorge into the valley floor, flowing in the direction of their travel.

A few joor's drive brought them out into a much broader river valley, into view of the Lotus Creek Valley site.

The ruins were well-preserved, with many walls still protruding above ground despite the millennia of eroded materiel that scattered the rivers' narrow floodplain. According to the monographs in the First City libraries, a peak population estimate of fifty thousand mecha made it one of the largest prehistoric settlements in Occidentalia. It had not been well-studied, thanks to its remote location; Optimus had to admit that without Lancehaft's pushy, almost bullying insistence, it likely would not have been investigated at all.

Risingwind led the group upriver, to a place where the current flowed sedately through a wide, shallow channel. There was no bridge; they waded on foot through the faintly acidic liquid. It was knee-high on Optimus at the deepest point, but the smaller members of the party were reduced to crossing at the side of a larger companion lest they be washed downstream.

Once on the other bank, the guide handed out containers of neutralising spray. Optimus aimed the nozzle into the back of his knees to quell the itch, and sighed with relief as it dripped down the inside of his tibial plating.

The archaeologists' camp was not much further ahead. They crested a final hill as the moon rose above the surrounding peaks and saw before them a collection of makeshift huts, bathed in the pale glow. A communications array capped the largest such building, aimed at what Optimus guessed was a relay station high up on the southern range. Figures approached from the ruins beyond.

Lancehaft and Risingwind were spirited away as soon as they had arrived by the researchers they'd left in charge of the site. The remaining archaeologists ran a quick inventory of the supplies the porters had carried in, and after the initial welcome, Optimus and Ironhide were left to their own devices entirely.

There were half a dozen guards already at the camp. Two were ex-military, Optimus guessed, carrying themselves with the same internal discipline and control he recognised in Ironhide. The others had the look of hired guns. 

A cold wind whistled down the valley. There was an evil-looking bank of clouds blowing in over the northern ridge. It was looking like their first orbit in the valley could be a rough one.

The approaching guards waved them into a nearby prefabricated hut. Inside, it turned out to be a rudimentary barracks, with ten berthrolls laid out on a bare rocky floor. Six had already been claimed, to judge by the meager personal possessions laid out by them. Ironhide picked the seventh, placing himself between Optimus and the others.

Ten guards, originally. To protect a team of seven archaeologists, that seemed rather a lot.

He emptied his subspace of the small things he'd brought, several interesting rocks and mineral substances that he'd picked up along the inward route, and laid himself down to rest. 

* * *

The archaeologists didn't quite approve of Optimus poking his olfactory sensors into their site, but the city was large and sprawling and they couldn't have stopped him if they'd tried. Instead they came to an unspoken agreement – he would be permitted to explore, as long as he made no damage or left no indication, in fact, that he'd ever been there at all. 

To Optimus, this was no trouble at all. 

Unlike the city at Psittacine, this one bore no signs of a violent end. There were no long-dead remains to be found, very few marks of looting on the ancient structures. The only invader he found any evidence of was the natural world itself: debris from floods and pools of neutralised rain in open basements gave life to a shy and much varied populace. 

In the back of a half-collapsed alleyway he found a nest of thylacines, a generator and three very new pups. He beat a very quick retreat, before the generator's protective instincts overruled her need to stay with her pups. Thylacines, he recalled from his studies, had very sharp dente.

Every evening, he reported to the group commander, a mech named Silver.

Silver was one of the ex-military mecha, a powerful, handsome warframe with very pale armour. He reminded Optimus a little of his former drill sergeant, Kup, if Kup had been considerably younger and slightly vain about his good looks. Optimus quickly found him a comfortable mech to get along with.

He met him outside the base headquarters that orbit, the hut with the communications array on the roof. It had a small lean-to roof built over the entryway; in front of it, the ground dropped away gently until it crumbled into the confluence of the rivers. Silver sat on a large rock beneath the lean-to and stared out over the moonlit landscape.

Optimus made his report, carefully omitting the thylacines. The pups were in great demand among Centralian nobility; he'd hate to be responsible for breaking up the family he'd seen.

“Any particular reason you keep going back to the ruins?” Silver asked at the end.

Optimus stopped short. “They interest me,” he said, instinctively reverting to the basic truth. “It's fascinating to see that mecha used to live in such a remote place as this.”

His spark began to whirl fast as the warframe considered his answer. Primus – was subterfuge always this exciting?

With an air of a mech picking his words very carefully, Silver spoke. “There has been some questioning among the prods as to why you're here.”

Optimus automatically glanced around the campsite. “I see,” he said diplomatically.

“Lancehaft thinks Glyph sent you to spy on him,” said Silver, and now he grinned. “Professional jealousy, eh?”

Optimus allowed himself a small grin. “He can rest assured that that is not my purpose here.”

“Then what is?” Silver said, his voice calm but his words bitingly perceptive. “This is for all its remoteness a dangerous place, and quickly getting harsher – not something that mere interest drives a mech to do, generally. I need to know that I can trust everyone under my command to do what needs to be done.”

Optimus reviewed his actions thus far, from the point of view of a commander. If their positions had been reversed, he would probably have come to the same conclusion.

He sighed. “I understand. I do not have any prior loyalties which would prevent me from following your orders with any less than utmost obedience.”

“Not what I meant,” said Silver. “I never said anything about my orders. All I need you to do is work with me and everyone else in this team to keep the scientists and their research alive and get them home safe.”

Optimus' respect for the mech went up a notch. “I can do that, sir.”

Silver cut him a sidelong look. “You talk like an academic. Why?”

“I was trained in the historical sciences,” Optimus admitted. It was a risk, admitting his true profession, but he felt he owed the mech that much. “I do have a certain academic interest in this place, but it is personal, unrelated to Lancehaft's studies. Ironhide and I initially signed onto this expedition because of that. However, we have also become interested in the rumours of strange creatures in the area.”

Silver sighed. “Those things?” He grunted, his features twisting into an aggrieved scowl. “Don't let them scare you away. Only one mech ever saw them, and he's been known to exaggerate things.”

“I was told there had been tracks recorded?” Optimus asked meekly.

“Blurry and rain-worn, probably several orbits old,” Silver told him. “Could easily have been a photovoltaic elk, an old bull or a carrying generator. Look – if you're really that interested, Bluesteel said he'd seen them from up in the old watchtower on Grey Ridge.” He leaned forward, peering out from beneath the lean-to, and pointed to a long, jagged-peaked mountain on the north side of the valley. “It's not a hard climb, but I'd highly advise you take someone with you, or at least use a locator beacon.”

“Thank you,” said Optimus, surprise making him smile. “I appreciate the advice.”

Silver waved a servo. “I'd advise you wait until moonrise to go, but I'll waive your camp duties for tomorrow if you'll do a little looking around for me while you're up there. How good is your distance vision?”

“Quite good. Clear to three leagues.”

Silver blinked. “That is good. There's a binocular mechanism up there, but you might not need it. I'll send you a map. Anything not already marked on it, I'll need you to notify me of immediately.”

“Are you expecting something?” Optimus asked, reading between the lines.

Silver narrowed his red optics, his EM field sharp and restless. “Not 'expecting', as such. Call it a hunch.”

“I've learned not to discount the hunches of old soldiers so quickly,” said Optimus. “If there's anything else I can help with...?” he trailed off, leaving the offer open.

The guard commander smiled. It was a twisted, wry expression, communicating not so much amusement as inevitability. 

"Just keep yourself aware of what goes on around you. That's all I can ask."

* * *

It rained overnight. The clouds clung on stubbornly through moonrise, drifts of mist and thick rain lashing down between the peaks. 

Optimus devoted the extra time to convincing Ironhide to accompany him. The old warrior was not eager to find himself on top of another mountain.

“Ah wasn't built for bein' up high,” he growled stubbornly, pulling the thermoblanket tighter around his shoulders until only the top half of his helm peeked out. “That's fer Seekers and satellites. Ah'm stayin' right here on solid ground, thanks.”

But when Optimus walked out of the camp later that morning, Ironhide was following closely behind.

Silver had given Optimus a clearly-marked map of the route up Grey Ridge. The mountain's height was noted at twenty-three hundred mechanometers above the valley floor, one of the shorter named peaks in the area. The lookout point sat on a scree slope-skirted shoulder of the main peak, overlooking a sheer bluff down into the next valley.

Silver had been right – the climb was not difficult. Optimus found it hard sometimes to fit his entire bulk into some of the narrower points of the route, but this was balanced out by an ability to simply step right over certain other obstacles. 

They made the lookout within three joor. It was an old structure, a half-collapsed minaret tucked away among the debris of a recent rockfall. Optimus checked the map before he approached it – some of those boulders were as tall as he was.

“Kinda looks like th' ruins down in th' valley,” Ironhide observed as he ducked into the lookout after Optimus. “Doesn't it?”

“It's at least three thousand years younger,” Optimus said, smiling. “There is potentially a cultural link, but the arches over the windows and entryway are a hallmark of later structures. The civilization in the valley may have had a watchtower or lookout up here, but if that's so, it must have been replaced at some point.”

“Guess it's a useful place.” Ironhide leaned out through one of the still-intact windows and laid his palm against a massive slab of mountain that blocked the view. “Pity about all th' rocks.”

Optimus knelt down beside the several-ton boulder that had squashed the end wall of the structure. The end of a built-in set of shelves peeked out past the rubble. He could just see a glint of smashed glass in the shadows.

“The original rockfall was recorded as having been a near miss,” he noted, making the appropriate edits to the map. “I suspect we should probably retreat to a safer location.”

“Yeah?” said Ironhide, already hurrying toward the door. “Thought Ah felt somethin' move just then an' it sure as Primus' exhaust pipe weren't me.”

There was a whistle of wind and a groan that wasn't natural. Optimus leapt out through the door after Ironhide.

The moon drifted out from behind a thick raincloud, and they saw what hadn't been visible the first time. The lookout roof bowed and creaked beneath a load of smaller rocks. Cracks spiderwebbed through the joints of the thousand-vorn-old structure. 

Ironhide turned away. “That ain't gonna last much longer.”

Optimus watched the mountain slowly consume the ancient lookout. There was something viscerally disturbing about it, as though the planet had grown a mouth and bitten at them. Academically, one got used to thinking of geography on its own time scales, which were much larger than those used by mecha. To see it suddenly catch up, and in such destructive fashion, made the neural net on the back of his neck prickle.

He turned away, searching for Ironhide.

The old warrior stood a few paces back from the edge of the flat outcrop on which they stood. He was quiet, his EM field still and focused.

Optimus approached, curious. :: _Ironhide?_ :: he sent, rather than break such concentration. :: What is it? ::

“Down in the valley,” he replied. Quietly, so that the wind blunted the words rather than snatching them away. “What d'yeh suppose those are?”

It took Optimus a moment to find the small group of figures, wandering slowly down the flank of the opposing mountains. 

They glinted in the moonlight, different shapes and different sizes, spread out across a low rise at the foot of the five-thousand-mechanometer massif that rose like a Prime's mitre above the surrounding landscape. There were five or six of them, and they were just beyond Optimus' optical range, their features blurry. Some were bipedal, he thought. Explorers and beasts of burden?

More likely, some of the Main Divide's hostile tribes.

“Stay here,” he murmured to Ironhide, already scanning the bluff for a workable route down. “I'm going to take a closer look.”

“Don't be a fool!” Ironhide hissed after him. “They're probably just mechanimals. We'll let Silver know, and then we'll bring someone who knows what the slag he's doin' back up here ta have a look. Come on, come back!”

Optimus slid his pedes over the edge and dropped down onto a narrow ledge. “At least some of them are bipedal,” he called back. “They're not just wild mechanimals.”

He looked around, but there was no safe way further down. The rock face looked as unstable as the landslide that had swallowed the lookout.

He edged along the ledge, the tips of his pedes hanging out over thin air. From this angle the bluff was not quite perpendicular. If he fell, he'd be bouncing off the cliff all the way down.

“Come on, Optimus!” The pleading note in Ironhide's voice turned a switch marked 'guilt' in Optimus' emotional centers. “Yeh can't get any closer from here.” 

His helm appeared over the edge of the cliff, and one arm reached down, servo outstretched. “Lemme help yeh up.”

Optimus reset his equilibrium, balancing delicately on a flat surface about as wide across as his hand. He went to shake his helm, then thought better of it. “I'd drag you down with me. There's a gap in the cliff about three mechanometers to my left,” he said, and his voice remained thankfully steady. “If I can make that, I should be able to climb back up by myself.”

He jumped before he his self-preservation protocols had time to register the lunacy of the idea. There was a long astrosec where he hung weightless in the air over empty space, and then his shoulder hit the cliff and he tumbled onto a pile of fallen rocks that formed a natural staircase all the way up to the lookout.

Ironhide let out an explosive vent when he came up, and punched him on the shoulder as soon as he'd made it to steady ground. 

“I am gonna kick yer skidplate so hard yer _descendants'll_ feel it, once we're back at camp! Primus bless!”

Optimus didn't argue. As the danger protocols faded away, his joints began to weaken and his frame shuddered faintly. 

Down in the valley, the strange mecha had made it to the creek that meandered through the central gully. They were still just outside of Optimus' range of sight.

He gave them one last look as he followed Ironhide back to the established trail, sparing a moment to wonder what they were. 

And the ground moved under his feet.

He cried out, flailing, tried to regain his balance. The rock was wet and slippery. He went to his hands and knees, clutching at the mountain. 

The rock fell out from beneath one pede, and his own weight pulled him down.

He threw himself upward, reaching out for Ironhide. He heard the old warrior scream his name beneath the thunderous rumble and grind of the rocks. Their digits touched. He tried to stretch that little bit further to save himself, but the terrible slide continued and suddenly there were mechanometers between them.

He instinctively dug his hands into the ground to slow his descent. Scree tore into his palms and the joints of his fingers. Every small thing he grabbed at pulled free of the soft clay beneath and clattered down with him. The noise filled the world.

The first cliff dropped out from underneath him. He fell in a shower of rock, six long seconds. 

The mountain slammed against him, knocking the air from his vents. Then he was tumbling every which way, the world a blur of weightlessness and smashing pain. He felt his armour crack and tear open, pain ripping through his frame.

Momentum shot him out over the edge of the second cliff. He fell for three seconds, landing heavily on his hip. He felt the strut snap under the impact.

Instinct tried to tuck his helm into his shoulders and roll with the sloping ground, but the damage had been done. His cortex flickered with agony, and his beleaguered processor shut down under the load.


	3. Chapter 3

 RITES OF CONQUEST

Optimus rebooted several joor later.

Immediately he wished he hadn't bothered. Bright red damage warnings littered his HUD; pain wracked every limb.

His autonomics ran a systems diagnostic. The results were striking: his left femoral strut was snapped through in two places, his knee hydraulics on the same leg wrenched out of place. His right leg was functional, but the tibial plate was missing and by the alerts clustering in his message center half his muscle cables had gone with it. His back was one huge mass of pain; both primary struts were whole but had been torn from their lumbar connections, and the lumbar struts themselves had in turn detached from his hip fixings, paralyzing him from the chest down. His plating was dented and torn from helm to toe, his neural net bruised and screaming.

His sensory centers glitched, throwing sparks behind his optics. His audials roared. He whimpered, feeling the sound vibrate up into his cranial cavity through vocal mechanisms made raw with screaming.

He forced his optics online.

Stars swam high above him in a velvet-black sky. His vision blurred with every throb of pain. The sheer volume of sensory data was too much; he felt his higher processors groan under the weight, threatening to shut off in self-preservation.

There was a whuff of vents nearby. Rocks clattered against each other.

He tipped his helm back, gasping with the effort. “Who's there?” he groaned.

The thump of large footsteps thudded through the ground. Fear bit through the morass of pain clouding his higher processors.

A deep rumbling of unfamiliar systems. A blur of greys moved into his field of vision.

Optimus repeated his question. “Who are you?”

The blur of greys shifted. A red light blinked down at him. An optic.

“Me Grimlock,” said a deep, rough voice. There was a gusty exvent, and warm air blasted over Optimus' frame. “Who you?”

Optimus shuttered his optics. Darkness moved in over his head.

“My name is Optimus,” he choked out. “Help me, please!”

There was a metallic scrape, the sound of a lengthy, ancient transformation sequence. A large hand took hold of his dislocated shoulder and pulled him upright.

Pain clawed its way into his chest, shooting white-hot bolts through his battered neural net. He screamed again, the sound weak and reedy, unable to fight the grip on his shoulder. His vision whited out; his HUD flickered.

An emergency shutdown loomed over his helm. Quickly, mercifully, the darkness claimed him.

* * *

 

He slowly came online a second time.

The pain was still there, but it was duller, less overwhelming. His HUD was still covered in damage reports, but this time there was a hint of orange among the red. And the ground beneath his back was soft and warm, a uniform flatness.

He brought his optics online.

A white ceiling arched above him, decorated rafters elegantly holding the room open. Engraved frescoes marched up the wall beside his generously sized berth. Thermoblankets covered his lower body. The bright yellow light of a brazier illuminated the room. He felt warm, and comfortable despite the persistent ache of damage crucifying his frame.

Optimus blinked.

He searched back through his memory banks for clues as to his whereabouts. He found very little – the fall down the cliffs, and then the initial reboot. There were a handful of hazy, pain-wracked recollections of being carried, or perhaps picked up, by something much larger than himself.

He attempted to look around the room without actually moving his head or neck, and quickly found that this was a task currently beyond his capabilities. Pain made his vision waver. Pixelated glitches washed across his field of sight.

The only visible door was closed. His geopositioning systems were offline, his chronometer scrambled. He seemed to be the only mech in the room.

Optimus took stock of his injuries. Someone – the mysterious Grimlock, perhaps? - had treated his wounds. The shoulder and knee mechanisms had been set back into their proper places. There was a drip line feeding energon into his chest cavity via his clavicular canal. Skeletal framework scans revealed plates around the breaks in his femoral strut, and shallow welds holding him together elsewhere. His self-repair systems were hard at work.

The lack of blankets over his upper half suddenly made sense – self-repair generated enough heat on its own that the addition of insulating thermoblankets would have been uncomfortable, possibly dangerously so.

As it was, the warmth dulled the pain, soporific. Exhaustion wore Optimus down. He slipped into a natural recharge, lulled by the flickering of the firelight.

* * *

 

The next time he onlined, the brazier had burned down. Shadows lurked in the corners of the room, and the mountain air was chilly. He drew the thermoblankets up over his chest, tucking them beneath his chin to conserve the warmth of his systems.

Sudden noises beyond the door made him startle. The sound of voices, deep and muted, approached. A third, high-toned and piping, joined the conversation.

They spoke an unfamiliar dialect, but to his surprise, Optimus found that he could follow their speech.

They paused, just outside of the room in which he lay.

“—well-designed and rather robustly engineered, which no doubt has something to do with his survival. Swoop said that he fell from a height nearly one and a half leagues above the valley where his frame came to rest. His core armour was dented and his spark chamber dangerously compressed, but his systems continued to work through the stresses placed on them by such damage, long enough that I was able to relieve the pressure before his spark failed.”

The high voice was evidently that of a medic.

The first of the deeper-voiced mecha spoke with a rhotic accent, trilling in the manner of the far southern Divide. “That is impressive. How goes his repair?”

“Well enough. He will not be exerting himself any time soon, but his nanite population is active and rated well for efficiency. I imagine that I could attempt a fuel pump transplant soon; I have him spliced into an external converter for now. After that, he could be up and walking in one or two orns.”

Optimus ran a self-diagnostic. The medic's prediction seemed rather optimistic; his structural integrity was barely flagging forty-two percent. His primary dorsal struts still had not fully bonded to their mountings, his core cavity was sagging under the pressure of his own subdural pectoral mass, and every time he tried to move his head, fireworks went off behind his optics.

The door creaked open. Light flooded in, silhouetting the head and shoulders of an enormous mech.

Optimus stared. A second mech, only a little smaller than the first, followed. Each of them would have stood head and shoulders over Megatron. Short, high-mounted wings stood up over their shoulders. The first, whose paint gleamed sky blue under the light from the corridor beyond, carried heavy-duty wheels on his legs and hips. The second, a big black and silver shadow, wore tank treads.

The brazier flared to life. Optimus reset his optics, adjusting to the sudden light.

A tiny orange mech zipped around the two giants' legs. “Please tread carefully, Sirs; his equilibrium is still rather sensitive and any overexertion could be damaging.” He approached Optimus' bedside, checking the array of monitors that hung just within Optimus' field of vision.

The blue mech – a triplechanger, Optimus guessed, swallowing his apprehension – came closer. He met Optimus' gaze with level red optics.

“Good evening, visitor,” he said, switching to the Centralian dialect. His diction was precise and somewhat accented; plainly it was not his native tongue. “Welcome to the emergency medical facility in Crystal City.”

Optimus attempted a reply. What came out instead was pained static.

The mech held up a massive hand, forestalling any further attempts. “Do not force yourself to speak. You sustained massive damage in your fall; Fixit here tells me that your recovery could take up to a quarter-vorn to complete.”

Fixit spoke up from somewhere beside Optimus' head. “For a given value of the word. There will be weaknesses left behind by these injuries that never leave you, but you should be close to your original capabilities, which I imagine were considerable, in three or four quartexes.” He craned his head over Optimus' shoulder. “Shutter your optics if you understand.”

Optimus obediently did so.

The big blue mech's EM field rippled with satisfaction. “My designation is Dai Atlas. I am the First Knight of Crystal City. Fixit is our surgeon and structural specialist. My companion—” he gestured to the third mech, who had remained by the open door— “is Axe.”

Short-range comm IDs flashed onto Optimus' HUD. He opened a line to Dai Atlas. :: _I have never heard of Crystal City._ ::

:: _Of course you have not_ :: came the reply. :: _We do not easily show ourselves to outsiders_. ::

:: _But you took me in?_ ::

The triplechanger's field – old and powerful – gave a throb of amusement. :: _You were found by some... associates of ours. They brought you here. We do prefer to refrain from consorting with outsiders, but few of us were willing to let a stranger bleed dry on our doorstep._ ::

:: _Thank you_ :: said Optimus. :: _I owe you a great deal._ ::

The expression on the big mech's face changed. :: _You do. We will use it well, believe me. I have seen your face before, Optimus of Centralia. I knew your mentor once. Sentinel has achieved much, but in the same vein has much to answer for._ ::

Optimus searched his archives for the name Dai Atlas. No entries.

:: _Are you a Prime?_ :: he asked.

:: _No_. :: came the swift answer. :: _Like him, however, I am from a time long gone. Unlike him, I preserve our history and culture here in Crystal City – rather, that which deserves to be preserved._ ::

Sensing that he had touched a nerve, Optimus backed away from that line of questioning. :: _I am a historian_ :: he said. :: _Might I be permitted to learn from your history?_ ::

:: _Perhaps, once you have recovered from your fall._ :: Dai Atlas' expression grew softer once more. :: _We will host you for as long as your recovery demands. After that, should you desire to stay for longer, we may be glad to foster one more Knight within our ranks._ ::

:: _I would be grateful for the opportunity_ :: said Optimus. :: _Thank you, again._ ::

Dai Atlas inclined his head. “Would that all our visitors were so mannerly,” he murmured. “Fixit, are you finished?”

“Nearly,” said the medic. “Just got to reconnect the oscillating pump, and—there we go.”

“We should leave our guest to his recovery,” said the triplechanger. “I am sure that he will be glad of the rest.”

“Probably,” said Fixit. “What's his name?”

Dai Atlas gave Optimus a wry look. “His name is Optimus of Centralia.”

Fixit patted Optimus' bedside. “You're a long way from home. Get some recharge, Optimus. I'd like to give you a new fuel pump in the morning.”

Exhaustion was already beginning to eat away at the corners of his vision. Optimus offlined and shuttered his optics, and was almost immediately plunged into sleep.

* * *

Megatron was heading north on the campaign trail when word of Optimus' fall from the heights of the Main Divide reached him.

The message had come from Ironhide. And here Megatron had thought him the most capable of Optimus' bodyguards.

He tore the hardcopy on which it was written in two, threw the halves into the river whose course the army was following, and threw himself into altmode, screaming into the dark sky. His geopositioning system pointed him south, toward Tyger Pax. He left the sound barrier behind, climbing into Mach 2, Mach 3. Three thousand leagues down the Main Divide, he dove, spiraling down into one of the vast fractures in the planetary crust and pulling up just in time to skim the warm lake that filled the valley floor, defying the pull of gravity out of sheer temper.

Somewhere in the midst of the fury, the realisation reached him that he could still feel the pull of Optimus' spark against his own. The gravitational force that bound the two of them together had not been severed.

He throttled back to Mach 2, arcing away toward the north. Separating Ironhide's helm from his shoulders could wait. Megatron had an invasion to plan.

* * *

In fact it was two and a half orn before Optimus was able to stand on his own. He endured the energon converter transplant, and further surgery to correct the angle of his broken femoral strut, with good humour.

He did not go far the first orn; walking was an effort his frame was suddenly not used to, and the ache that settled through his struts after a handful of steps was a warning he did not overlook.

The medical berth was not the prison it could have been – Fixit took the time to converse with Optimus, fishing for information about the outside world in between answering Optimus' many questions.

The medbay in which he had found himself belonged to a civilisation calling itself 'Crystal City'. It lay, as far as Optimus could imagine, somewhere within the deep valleys of the central Main Divide. It was not marked on the maps of the area. He was not given any answers on how a city could exist between the hostile highland tribes without some inkling of its existence reaching the outside world; and so, intent on solving the mystery, he turned to the city itself.

Crystal City's residents spoke an archaic dialect of Old Centralian, sometimes with the remnants of outside accents, as had Dai Atlas' companion Axe, that first night, and more often without. The fuel he was given was dilute and sweet, much like the festival energon he had had in Tyger Pax. Once he was allowed to wander the corridors of the city, the architecture was a mix of the open-sided, flat-roofed villas and covered streets of the very oldest Centralian cities, and the tall, arched edifices that dominated the skylines in the ancient quarters of Occidentalia.

He was never alone; either Fixit, or some other citizen Dai Atlas had sent to accompany him, followed him on his wanderings. The official line was that nobody wanted to see him get hurt or lost. Optimus guessed that the leaders of the city were also making sure that he didn't got somewhere that he wasn't suspposed to go, which might have affronted him a few weeks ago. The ache of healing struts was ever-present in his neural net, however, and he found himself too glad of the company to care.

A quartex after he had first woken, he began to realise that his stay in Crystal City would be a long one.

He had begun the orn in the medbay, woken by Fixit's arrival in the first shift of the morning. A young mech had followed the medic into the medbay – a flier, several size classes larger than Fixit, and carrying on his back the longsword of the martial order which guarded Crystal City, the Knights of Cybertron.

Optimus felt he could recall the title of the order from somewhere. His processors had received a mighty knock, and the memory eluded his conscious thoughts.

They were all but revered in Crystal City, the recipients of awed respect and sometimes a downright religious reverence. Some were priests as well as fighters, but not all; some did more worldly jobs as scribes, accountants and prospectors, and some were career soldiers, though according to every mech Optimus spoke to the last fighting in the valley had happened several hundred vorn ago. The Knights were marked apart from other mecha by the long, straight-bladed swords which they bore at all times.

The young Knight's name was Wing. He met Optimus with a friendly smile. They grasped each other's wrists and shook hands in the Occidentalian tribal greeting, Wing's EM field calm and disciplined against Optimus'.

The Knights hadn't yet sent one of their own to keep an eye on him. He wondered if perhaps Wing might be more forthcoming in answering his questions.

Previously his guides had not taken him beyond the medical precinct of the city. Today, Wing led him up, through elevator locks and hidden stairwells, into the highest parts of the city.

“Crystal City is built in eleven terraces on the side of an ancient mount of glacial moraine,” explained Wing, as they climbed. “The lower levels are concerned with business and everyday life, but the upper are reserved for the pursuit of wisdom and enlightenment. They are open to everyone; it's just that most mecha have more important things to be worrying about.”

“Is there a library?” asked Optimus, craning his neck to see over the high ramparts that shielded the elevator from view. The valley in which the City lay was bigger than he could ever have believed had he not seen it with his own two optics. The flat glacial valley floor was leagues wide, and the ramparts of the mountains on either side reared up for leagues in a near-perpendicular set of walls more forbidding than any modern architecture could ever have come up with. It was no wonder the city had not been attacked for centuries. Above it, the black void of the sky yawned, pinprick stars twinkling in its depths.

“There is,” said Wing. “Would you like to go there?”

A small part of Optimus was embarrassed by the speed with which he turned to his guide and said emphatically, “Yes, please.” The rest of him was too excited to care.

A new city, peopled by mecha whose existence no-one in Centralian academic circles had ever known about, with a history and a culture all of their own! Primus knew what ancient knowledge they had preserved.

Wing led him to a multi-storeyed building built in the sprawling palazzo style of the Dawn Basilica. The columns which held up the roofs were thick and robust, plainly built to carry heavy loads of snow. Inside, the atmosphere was quiet and the hum of datapoints calming. Optimus found himself a clear table near an intranet access point, accessed the catalogue, and enlisted Wing's help in retrieving all the books he wanted to read.

He returned to the medbay at the end of the orn only under threat of further bed rest, reeling from the sheer amount of data he had downloaded. His recharge was deep and filled with memory fluxes, the sight and sound of civilisations dead and buried beneath the mountains' dust floating past beyond his fingertips.

He woke with thoughts of Ironhide behind his optics, memories of Sentinel and of the Science Division under his leadership. The touch of Megatron's claws, the warmth and vibration of his body, haunted Optimus' frame. He had a responsibility to them.

If he could just get word of his survival to them – but he had seen the mountains which guarded Crystal City the previous orn. In his current state, it would be impossible to leave the valley.

Even if he knew where to go after that.

Wing returned the next orn. He found Optimus still and pensive, going over a downloaded treatise on the construction of the lowest tier of the city while he mulled the problem over in his higher thought queues.

“You seem troubled. Can I help?”

Optimus looked up, startled out of his musings. “I—perhaps you can. Is there a way that I can get word of my survival to my companions? A courier, perhaps?”

Wing's expression went blank, hiding discomfort. “That... could be difficult. Secrecy is our premiere virtue, it's how we survived.”

“Is there someone I could speak to about it, then?” pressed Optimus. “I should not have left it as long as I did, and it could well be urgent.”

Wing thought about it, his winglets quivering. “Dai Atlas will be the one to decide. I can ask him to see you.”

“Please do,” said Optimus, and gave him a thankul smile.

There was a moment of silence. He felt the sensation of phantom hands on his plating, tracing down his sides like a lover's. The hands were Megatron's, clawed and deadly. He refocused his optics, staring at the screen of his datapad. His internal analytics found an open tactile memory file, playing in the back of his processors, and closed it.

“Dai Atlas says he will see you this orbit,” said Wing. “During the fourth shift. I will take you there when it is time.”

“Please give him my thanks.” Optimus went to climb out of the berth. His healing back seized; he grimaced and tipped forward, making a pained noise. Wing steadied him.

“You aren't even close to being healed,” he observed.

Fixit, trundling by with a stack of medical tools in his arms, agreed. “Not for a lunar cycle or two. Particularly if you want to walk out of here. Even the Dynobots won't attend— _attempt_ the near passes this close to winter.”

“The Dynobots?” echoed Optimus.

Fixit stopped, gave him a quizzical look. “Did I forget to tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Ooh, I did,” said the medic. “The Dynobots are how you got here. Grimlock carried you in over the eastern pass.” He gave Optimus a thoughtful look. “Maybe you should meet them. Say thanks, and all that.”

“I rather think I should,” agreed Optimus. A memory nagged at his processor core – the glimmering shape of a mech standing over him, and piercing red optics staring through the blur of pain.

Fixit turned to Wing. “They're probably down in the basement terrace today, by the waterrace reservoir. If you can't find them, I guess, just listen for the roaring.”

“Who are the Dynobots?” Optimus asked, as he and Wing left the medbay.

Wing's EM field gave a wry pulse. “We're not exactly sure. They're a group of mecha who live rough in the mountains around here. Grimlock, their leader, uses a weapon that might be a very old greatsword. They fight with the senior Knights occasionally, but they don't belong to our order.”

“And they brought me to Crystal City,” Optimus murmured.

“Fixit and our other medics are training Swoop in medicine whenever he is here,” said Wing. “But they were probably headed here anyway.”

The Knight led Optimus into a narrow, covered stairway. Fae-lights glowed at shoulder height on the walls. At the bottom of the set of steps, a stone archway led out onto a downhill lane following the course of a steep waterrace. Only a little water ran through the bottom of the channel, glinting under the moonlight.

“I don't think that they're from the highland tribes,” said Wing, continuing downhill. “I think they're older than that. From the chaotic times after the Cataclysm, perhaps, or maybe even before.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Optimus.

“They're beastformers of some sort, but their altmodes are of mechanimal frametypes that don't exist. Or don't anymore, at least – I have read archaeological records theorising that they might have existed a long time ago, when energon was more plentiful. Beastformer frames are less energon-efficient than your standard grounder frame, but the tradeoff is that they're much more suited for this sort of terrain than we are. You need roads, and I need flat space to land on, both of which are in short supply in the mountains.”

Optimus nodded. “I haven't spun my wheels for far too long.”

“When Fixit clears you to transform, get someone to take you to the speedway track on the north side of the city,” suggested Wing with a grin. “Do dexters race in Centralia?”

“Sometimes. I haven't tried it, though.” Optimus considered the idea. Megatron would never believe it if he did. Perhaps that was reason enough to try!

They reached the terrace wall, and took the elevator down, down, into the glacial plain at the foot of the moraine. The roads here were straighter, wider. Wing took Optimus east, around a massive buttress holding up the ramparts of the terraces above.

The sound of water reached his audials. A lake came into view, the glimmering lights of the city reflecting on its dark surface. The hum of a water purification plant somewhere nearby undercut the whispering ripples of waves.

Optimus looked around, searching for the mysterious Dynobots. “Are they here?”

Wing pointed. “Yes.”

Around the too-even shore of the lake, huge dark figures gambolled. Two smaller entities chased a larger one into the lake, thumping together and sending gouts of water high into the air. Two others stalked along the water's edge, one tall and lanky, the other thick and massive. Red pinpoint glows marked their optics. All but the smallest, the lanky one, looked to be in altmode.

Optimus approached them. Under his pedes, eroded rock and ore crunched together. The big mech on the shore looked his way at the sound, a massive blocky head swinging up. He conferred with his smaller companion for a moment, then stalked intently on two thick legs toward Optimus.

“Are you the one called Grimlock?” Optimus asked, somewhat hesitantly. The mech was _huge_ , bigger than him, bigger than Megatron, and his altmode had a mouth full of dente like daggers, some as long as Optimus' fingers. He looked ancient, and savage.

The beastformer stopped just on the outside edge of Optimus' EM field. “You Optimus looking lot better than the last time me Grimlock saw you.”

It took Optimus a moment to parse the strange grammar. When he did, he spun his fans in amusement. “I don't think that would have been hard to achieve.”

Grimlock's mouth opened, a toothy grin. “Not hard. Knight medics good. Me Grimlock wondered, what you Optimus doing, falling down cliff.”

“The path fell away beneath me,” Optimus explained, suppressing a shudder of remembered terror. “My companion and I had been looking at the sentry's hut up on the ridge.”

Grimlock's head dipped, and understanding flashed through his ancient EM field. “When mountains move, got to get out of the way quick, or learn to fly.” He made a guttural whuffing noise, as if his primary vents were in his throat. It was a laugh, Optimus realised. “Me Grimlock, not fly either.”

“My brother does,” said Optimus. “I had never envied him, up until then.”

Another whuffing laugh. Grimlock stepped closer, head lowering to give Optimus a closer look. “You Optimus, with the lowlanders at the dead city?”

“I was, yes.”

Red optics blinked at him. “Me Grimlock, not see point. Them mecha, went away long time ago.”

“Do you know how long?” asked Optimus.

Grimlock stalked in a circle around him, a short, spined tail balancing the weight of his huge head. “No idea. Long time. Before city here was built. Me Grimlock say, ask him Dai Atlas.”

“I will, thank you,” said Optimus. “In any case, I came here because I wanted to thank you for bringing me here. More than likely, you saved my life.”

“You Optimus are welcome.” Grimlock gave him a saber-toothed grin. “You Optimus is free to pay us Dynobots back anytime.”

The sound of watery combat in the background had died away. Behind Grimlock, Optimus saw the three combatants climbing up onto the shore again. The thin lanky Dynobot greeted them. In the light reflected from the upper levels of Crystal City, Optimus saw that he had long, broad wings attached to his arms, which were themselves unusually long.

“If there is anything I can do for you,” he said, “I will do my best.”

Grimlock's massive head swung around, snout nudging against Optimus' chest with enough force to make him stumble. “You Optimus' spark feel familiar. Old, like ours. Where you Optimus come from?”

Optimus steadied himself, frowning. “I am from Centralia, specifically the First City. Sentinel Prime is my mentor.”

Grimlock rocked back on his hind legs, all of a sudden towering over Optimus. “First City, not the first. Him Sentinel is bag of wind.”

“What do you mean – were there cities before the Cataclysm?” Optimus overlooked the slight to his mentor, concerned by Grimlock's reaction. “I came here because I wanted to learn. Is there something you can tell me?”

Grimlock shook his head – a whole-body effort – and rumbled deep in his chest. “Plenty of things before the Cataclysm. Lots of cities, shining under sunlight. Me Grimlock, not remember well.”

He turned, stalking back toward his companions.

Optimus let him go, mulling over his words. Had Cybertron once had a sun to orbit? Sentinel had said once that only a few things had survived the Cataclysm, among them a handful of lucky Cybertronians. Could Grimlock really be one of them?

He returned to Wing, and they began the long walk back to the medbay.


End file.
